“Anyway, this pregnancy has me — has affected me — oh, I don’t know.”
She says, to her shame and embarrassment and really, to set herself up, “I know I’ll love this baby. When it comes. So I try and comfort myself with that.”
Now he’s back to looking at her. God, his attention. How she desired it so much, just to have him pay attention to her. “I don’t doubt that you’ll ‘love’ your baby. Whatever that means. You are so ridiculous, you know that? ‘I know I’ll love this baby,’ ” he says, nastily, mimicking her, sitting across from her and taking her in. “I see it in your eyes, that hope. The thrill of it. You are no better than a ten-year-old girl, wanting to go on the roller-coaster ride just one more time, and eat just one more bag of cotton candy. And there will be fun in it, in the excessiveness, but you may also throw your guts up. The suffering may outweigh the pleasure. And of course, you are not ten. It’s not your stomach and mind that is at stake. It’s other people’s lives. Other people’s fucking lives that you are messing with. Your two sons, the daughter that’s on her way, your husband, who it seems you don’t even give a fuck about. And yet, you walk this earth, travel this country, acting as if you are some holy person. Some Madonna. A mother! A mother-to-be! You want respect, you want to be treated well. You think you are doing this world a favor. But really, every day, and every child you choose to have — and I wouldn’t put it past you to keep on going after this third, by the way — is just you avoiding taking a long hard look at the failure you are. And the misery you have created. Hey, focus on a new one and then you won’t have to look at the mistakes you made the first and second times around!
“And there are many problems with this. First, you walk around with no truth. This kills your soul. You walk around, presenting yourself as someone that you are not, doing things, creating life, like God, but you are a false God, because you do not admit why you are doing what you are doing. To yourself, maybe the truth whispers itself to you, a tiny bit, at night sometimes. But you ignore it, and go about in the world as a complete lie. Your public life is a lie, and so your inner life, your soul, your chance to commune with God, is gone. And you call yourself a mother, like this is a good thing, something to be proud of, something that deserves respect. And you appear fit to be a mother, in the eyes of all the other liars you walk around the earth with. God! God help us all!”
Sonia feels one with the S-shaped chair. She thinks it’s actually made for pregnant women. Or maybe, it’s made so that a pregnant woman can never get up from it. The thought of getting up seems impossible. And the view of Philbert, as he walks slowly around — entrances her. She says. “Actually, I don’t appear fit to be a mother anymore. I’ve left my family. And a friend called social services on me. Or someone who used to be a friend.”
“You’ll go back. You’ll keep playing the charade. You’ll slime your way back into it. I don’t doubt that for a minute.”
This is what he says to her, after letting her into his home. Her back is relaxed now — this is so much better than the car — her legs up on the curve of leather, a cup of water in her hand.
He gets up and walks away from Sonia, he turns his glowing black eyes away, and for a moment she can really breathe. The air comes in, the air goes out. She looks at the back of his head and it is virtually a nest, gray and black dreadlocks crisscrossing about in a thick clump, with rivers and valley forming in the mass. Animals live in that hair, thinks Sonia, on his scalp, feasting on the flesh of his head. He disappears into another room and she can hear water run. Hear the click of a gas stove being turned on.
Her mouth is dry despite the water. What she really needs to do is drink oil. She is so happy to see this man. This was what the whole trip was about. Seeing him. And she hadn’t known that until now.
She says, “I love my children. I love having children. We are biologically programmed to have children. I became fixated on it at a certain point and I have no regrets. You call yourself an adult and you question my maturity to bring children in the world and yet someone took a chance and gave birth to you. You, who’s never humbled yourself to be a parent. Because being a parent is about humility. And about not being so self-absorbed anymore. Humility is a good thing. Even in the face of art. You think you’d be out here in fucking Wisconsin if you had kids? Fuck. You’d be the most famous painter in New York. Your art would have transcended itself. You would have been more of a person, and therefore, more of an artist. You’re just bitter. And wrong. Not having children is like not passing puberty. Not having children is like not ever getting a job. It is, it is all that … and so much more. Not having children is missing the most sacred transition in life, from child to adult. It’s like not dying, like not being born. It is missing the most important stage in life on this planet, the only real stage between birth and death, the two stages that are forced upon us.”
He sits down in front of her on a stool, holding a warm cup in his hands.
“You, you who once believed in free will. You think I don’t remember that about you? I remember things about you because you once had promise. Now you don’t. I look at you and I see it in your eyes. You belong in front of the TV. You belong on a park bench, you belong humped over a stove, cooking a disgusting box of macaroni and cheese. You are over. Your mind is gone. You have no light in your face. None. That wasn’t always the case, you know.”
“How dare you judge me now! I’m pregnant. I’m in a state of change. This is not the permanent me. This is me right now and very soon I won’t be pregnant anymore. The minute this baby drops out of me, I’ll be different. I’ll get a part of me back.” Sonia’s eyes tear with rage.
“A part of you back? And the rest? Where’s the rest go? Into those hungry mouths, all three of them. You choose to raise them, you choose to not have a life. It’s that simple. My mother …”
“Don’t fucking talk to me about your mother.” She spits out, interrupting him. “We are talking about me and I’m not your mother. Not all mothers are the same. To be a mother isn’t to be like all mothers.”
“Fair enough. But you are the one who brought up biology. We are not biology, Sonia, you fool. We live in a time where we have technologies to make choices. You chose to have kids.”
“I realize that.”
“And this talk of humility. What is that? That humility can only be experienced by a parent?”
“A certain kind of humility, yes, I think can only be experienced by a parent.” She puts both her hands on her stomach. The baby feels her agitation. It’s moving, visibly too, she looks down and can see her stomach move, and her hands feel it and a part of her wants Philbert to feel it, how amazing it is, to have a growing human inside you.
“Must you make it a special club, with special privileges, is that the only way to survive this horrible thing, being a mother? Pretend it’s something that it’s not? And you contradict yourself. Not all mothers are the same. But all mothers experience profound humility. So that is sameness. And so then I am right. And I have every right to compare you to my mother. You know what humility did to her? It made her nothing. It made her a sorrowful, bored, and mediocre person. She will get into heaven easily, but at what cost?”
“You don’t believe in heaven, Phil, remember? And humility doesn’t have the same effect on everyone. I am humble in front of my canvas. How’s that? I worship art like you will never experience. I need it more now than ever before, I need it for an escape from my life. You, you don’t know what need is. Your whole fucking life is a luxury. I need art. You just live it. Just wait. Just stick around. You’ll see.”